Her body is a difficult sister, and she loves her,
|
and hides her somewhere in herself safe from harm.
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She's barely coasting into a paycheque, stuck on empty.
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Her blue eyes frozen green in the low-lit ATM.
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I need a way to measure the distance.
|
I need a way to say why,
|
out of breath or out of key, her voice resonated in me.
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Wish on everything
|
Pray that she remains proud and strange and so hopelessly hopeful.
|
Her body is a difficult sister, and she loves her,
|
and hides her somewhere in herself safe from harm.
|
Her night shift is over,
|
she's writing you a postcard to say that she's okay
|
and it's raining there again.
|
My fury's rising faster than bus-fares.
|
Could someone clarify why there's no structured narrative?
|
No neat story-line to explain?
|
Wish on everything.
|
Pray that she remains proud and strange and so hopelessly hopeful.
|
(Wishes and prayers are the way that we leave the lonely alone
|
and push the wounded away).
|
She shoplifts some Christmas gifts,
|
and a bracelet for herself, and considers phoning home.
|
Has some quarters in her hand.
|
But she sits down on the sidewalk and bites her bottom lip,
|
and spends the afternoon willing traffic-lights to change.
|
|
-----------------
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Exiles Among You
|
The Weakerthans |